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In the Canadian Rockies, there is a town most maps mark but few mouths dare to name aloud. They call it Eerie, British Columbia, though those who live there have learned not to say the word after dark. It stains the tongue. It carries weight. And it never lets go. If you are reading this, you have already stepped too close. I warned myself once, too. I thought it was only folklore, the rambling of an old woman tethered to her last breaths. Dolores Balcom. She lived more than a century, and yet the final thing she gave this world was not wisdom or comfort but a confession.

In the hushed reverence of night, beneath a muted lantern, I watch. Eyes are not windows—they are involuntary confessions. Sin stains them. Guilt fogs them. False righteousness cracks their lens. A quiet voice guides me: Collect what they squander. Free the truth trapped behind their blinks. Take the eyes, and the soul follows. Take the eyes, and the lie dies. I am no monster. I am a keeper of endings, a steward of clarity. With merciful hands, I gather final gazes—preserving the last pure light before it gutters out.

Welcome, curious soul, to the shadowed streets of London, a city choked with fog and oil, where gas lamps flicker against walls slick with rain and something far older than humanity stirs beneath the cobblestones. I am Aryn Bats, your guide through a tale of flesh, steel, and madness, where science and horror entwine like gears in a cruel machine. In this book, you will meet a man, Dr. Jekyll, whose brilliance has fractured his very being, giving birth to a creature of nightmare, Hyde. But do not mistake this for a tale of duality and morality. Here, the serum does not simply transform.